Fevers, Kisses and Cough Syrup
by criminalxxxmindsxxxfreak
Summary: "I don't need a nurse, John," "Well then it's a good thing I'm a doctor, isn't it?" / John comes home to find a very ill Sherlock. Johnlock.


**Title: **Fevers, Kisses and Cough Syrup

**Rating:** T

**Pairing:** Johnlock

**A/N: **So first time writing Johnlock. Seriously nervous about this, especially considering it's only my second "Sherlock" fic (unless a few crossovers count). Please let me know what you think guys, reviews are loved! Criticism and comments welcomed with open arms. Hope you enjoy!

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**Fevers, Kisses and Cough Syrup**

* * *

The flat was suspiciously silent when John got in from work that night. Usually he could hear Sherlock upstairs before he got there, experimenting or talking to himself – often unaware that he was actually alone in the flat. But that night all was quiet. As John made his way upstairs, he frowned, tugging his coat off as he reached the landing and, looking around, spotted Sherlock lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, wrapped in his dressing gown. Exactly where he had been when John had left that morning.

"Have you even moved all day?" he asked, giving his friend a cursory glance before heading to the kitchen.

"Of course I have," Sherlock's voice was a bit stuffy and nasal as he answered. One long arm flung across his face in a sudden, unexpected move.

John turned and went back to the couch, concern on his face now, "Are you alright?"

"I'm _fine_," Sherlock insisted as John gently pulled his arm away from his face.

He certainly didn't look fine. He was paler than usual and sweating. Sherlock never sweat, not that John had seen anyway. Not even when they ran through the streets of London together had he ever seen his friend break a sweat. Not only that, but Sherlock's usually keen, sharp eyes were dull and glassy and when he looked up at John he grimaced against the light and his eyes didn't quite focus on John's face.

"You're sick,"

Sherlock snorted and halfway through the snort became a horribly wet, hacking cough and he doubled over for a moment as the attack passed.

"I can't be sick, I never get sick,"

"Well, you are," John insisted, pressing his hand against the younger man's forehead and frowning, "Got a fever by the looks of it. Coughing, fever, chills probably. Are you nauseous?"

"No," Sherlock's stuffy voice sounded odd to John's ears, he was so used to hearing the man speak in rapid, clear sentences.

John raised a brow and looked around the flat for a moment, "Have you even eaten today?"

"…Why should I?"

John sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, that's it, sit up, Sherlock. I'll get a blanket and some soup. Do you want tea?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted even as John helped him sit upright on the sofa. "Honestly, John, I don't need –"

"Shut up, you're sick now just sit there and let me get you something to eat. We should probably get you to a doctor too,"

"You're a doctor," Sherlock pointed out as John headed to his bedroom to grab a blanket for him. "Why leave the flat when I've already got one here?"

John laughed, shaking his head as he came back into the room and passed him the blanket. Sherlock carefully wrapped it around himself with an annoyed smirk on his face as he did so. "Fine, I'll take care of you. But that means you have to listen to what I say, alright?"

Sherlock snorted and ended up coughing again, his face contorting in an odd cross between annoyance and pain. John left him sitting there and went into the kitchen to make tea and soup for him. Sherlock leaned over, ignoring the pang the movement sent through his aching head and watching him putter around for several minutes.

"I don't need a nurse, John," he muttered when John finally came back to the sofa with the soup and tea.

"Good thing I'm a doctor then, isn't it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed as he stared down at the soup. "I'm not hungry,"

"Eat, Sherlock," John insisted, sitting down in the chair and staring at his friend. "You need to eat, especially since you're sick."

Sherlock made a face at the soup and curled his lip disgustedly as he lifted the spoon and let the soup drip back down into the bowl. "Honestly, John, can you really tell me that canned soup is going to make me feel any better? As a medical man, you must allow that mere soup is not going to cure my illness."

John sighed, glaring at his friend, "Probably not, Sherlock, but since you don't have any cough syrup that'll have to wait until I can go out and get some, so eat the soup and be happy,"

"Cough syrup? Oh good god," Sherlock's groan of annoyance sounded odd with his nasally voice.

"Problem?"

"It's so… mundane," Sherlock muttered, pursing his lips as he slowly sipped soup from the spoon, making a face at it. "So boring. _Me _being ill, John, I cannot allow this."

"Well, apparently your body as other ideas, Sherlock. Maybe you shouldn't have gone out running around in the rain, hmm? I told you not to,"

Sherlock muttered and his eyes lit up a bit as his phone rang and he reached for it, a grin spreading across his pale, sweating features when he saw that it was Lestrade.

"Lestrade, please tell you have a case for me, I'm about to die from boredom," he nearly doubled over coughing again and didn't react fast enough when John suddenly stood from his chair and snatched the phone from Sherlock's ear.

"Lestrade? Yes, it's John… No, I'm sorry, Sherlock's a bit under the weather, he can't go to the crime scene right now. Me? Why me?" he sighed and looked over at Sherlock, "No, no, I'm sorry. Look, how about you come by the flat later and give Sherlock all the facts? He really shouldn't be out right now. Yes, alright."

He place the phone on the table and crossed his arms as Sherlock glowered at him, "That alright with you, Sherlock?" he asked.

"I hate you,"

John sighed and smiled, "No you don't," he told him, "You're just cranky. Well, more than usual. I'm sure Lestrade will be by later tonight. I'll go out and get that cough syrup for you."

Sherlock curled his lip and John sighed, shaking his head, "Okay then, be back soon," he grabbed both his and Sherlock's phones for good measure and grabbed his jacket as he headed down the stairs, leaving the detective sulking on the sofa with his soup and tea.

John couldn't have been gone more than twenty minutes but when he got back he found Sherlock lying down on the couch again, this time the blanket wrapped around him tightly, the half-eaten soup and empty tea cup sitting on the desk next to his laptop. He was breathing gently, if a little labored and John smiled down at his friend. He hardly ever saw Sherlock sleeping, especially so soundly.

He looked younger, innocent. Innocent was not a word John would normally attribute to Sherlock, but sleep relaxed the hard, angularness of his features he looked almost like a child. Without thinking he reached down and brushed a sweat dampened curl from Sherlock's face and the younger man stirred and mumbled as his pale eyes fluttered open.

"John?" he blinked up at him, taking a moment to come back to reality.

"I'm back," John said, not entirely sure why he was whispering, but he held up the bottle of medicine and dangled it over his friend's face for a moment. "Got your cough medicine."

Sherlock's breathing was a little heavier now as he stared up at John, his nose red and his eyes puffy and glassy as he stared at him, "John," he croaked, his voice stained and cracked both from sleep and the sore throat that was driving him out of his mind.

"John is this what it's like when regular people get sick? How do you cope? I feel as if I'm about to die,"

John rolled his eyes and twisted the cap off the cough syrup, "You aren't going to die, Sherlock, I promise. Sit up so I can give you your medicine,"

Grumbling, Sherlock struggle to sit up and John helped him settle back against the couch, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh of relief as he let his head fall back against the leather. John poured the syrup into the small medicine cup and tried to pass it to the other man but Sherlock refused to lift his hand to take it.

Frowning, John forced Sherlock's head up and pushed the cup against Sherlock's lips, "Drink it," he insisted.

Managing not to pout, Sherlock let John give him the medicine and grimaced as he swallowed roughly. "That's horrible," he complained, curling his lips into a sneer as he scraped his tongue over his teeth to try and get the taste out of his mouth.

John smiled, "Maybe, but it'll help you feel better soon. Then you can get back out there chasing down killers,"

"Can't happen too soon," Sherlock muttered, letting his head drop back against the couch, closing his eyes. John stood there for a moment and then smiled to himself, sitting the cough syrup down next to the soup and taking the empty tea cup into the kitchen. Just as he was about to head to his bedroom to get some much needed sleep, Sherlock spoke again.

"John? Can you hand me my laptop? I can't sleep; I need to do _something_,"

Sighing, John walked back to the desk, picking up the computer and handing it to his sick friend. "Try to get some rest, Sherlock, please," he said, "You need sleep you know."

Sherlock looked horrified at the very thought but just nodded as he pulled the laptop open and turned it on, the glowing screen casting odd shadows across his face in the dimly lit room. John sighed and started to head to his room again and once more Sherlock stopped him.

"John?"

He turned halfway to see Sherlock and waited while the younger man bit his lip in a very uncharacteristic show of nervousness.

"Thank you, for taking care of me."

John blinked. Had Sherlock just said "thank you"? Shaking his head, John nodded slowly, "Yeah, don't mention it," He nearly said that Sherlock would do the same for him, but he wasn't actually sure that he would. He finally went back to his room and lay down to get some sleep.

* * *

**~./\.~**

* * *

"Ugh," John groaned and rolled over, his body still feeling heavy and tired, but his mind whirring as he stared at the ceiling for several moments. He turned to stare at the alarm clock and glared at the numbers that hatefully glowed back at him.

2:14 AM

Groaning again, John nearly screamed and flung the pillow over his face, not entirely sure if he was trying to smother himself or not. He'd barely gotten four hours of sleep and yet there he was, lying awake, staring around his room in the darkness. Normally it would have been a nightmare keeping him up, or Sherlock and one of his ridiculous quests on a case. This time, however, there didn't appear to be any reason at all. He just couldn't stay asleep.

He lay there for nearly five minutes before he threw the blanket back and stumbled his way back to the kitchen, hoping that maybe tea would help him get back to sleep. He yawned as he glanced toward the couch where Sherlock was still laying, the blanket half covering him and half tossed to the side. There were more papers and photographs haphazardly strewn out on the desk. Probably left there by Lestrade.

Curious, John made his way to the desk and rifled through them, spotting Sherlock's familiar handwriting scrawled over the photos, notes to himself about things he'd observed. John smiled and put the photos back, shaking his head. Even when sick, Sherlock's mind was still probably sharper than anyone's he'd ever met before or ever would meet.

His smile became a little bit softer and fonder as he glanced at his sleeping friend. Sherlock had never slept this much since John had known him. Not at one time anyway. Maybe not even all together.

He started to reach out and brush the hair from Sherlock's forehead again, but managed to stop himself this time, pulling his hand back and sighing heavily. He realized Sherlock not only looked younger and innocent, he also looked… vulnerable. Now there was a word he'd never expected to apply to Sherlock Holmes.

He turned to head back to the kitchen to get started on his tea when Sherlock mumbled and twisted in his sleep, "John…"

It was a soft whisper, but it caught John's attention and he turned around to see pale, glassy blue eyes looking up at him. "You alright?" he asked gently, kneeling down to Sherlock's level, watching his face.

Sherlock blinked a few times and took a shallow breath, wheezing slightly as he did. "I'm fine, just… just don't want you to go,"

John frowned, "I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. Someone's got to take care of you,"

Sherlock shook his head, "No, not that… I don't want you to go _ever_,"

John was really confused then, frowning. Since when did Sherlock say things like that? He thought for a moment he was imagining things, but the nearly empty bottle of cough syrup sitting on the desk proved otherwise and he smiled.

"Sherlock, how much cough medicine have you taken?"

Sherlock blinked, "Dunno…" his voice was still soft and a little bit nasally.

He nodded slowly, "Well, I think you've had enough, alright? And don't worry about anything. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon,"

Without thinking, John ruffled Sherlock's hair and stood, going back into the kitchen to make his tea.

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**~./\.~**

* * *

The next morning when John came into the living room after finally getting in a couple more hours of sleep he looked over at the couch out of instinct and frowned when he spotted the discarded blanket but no Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" he called, looking around with a frown, "Sherlock? Are you still here?"

He was nearly ready to call Sherlock's phone and find out where he was when he heard the bathroom door open and sighed in relief when his friend entered the room, curly hair still a bit damp. He was no longer wearing his dressing gown, now in his dark suit. But he was still pale and his eyes were glassy and puffy and as he entered he bent over and coughed a hacking, horrible sounding cough.

"Sherlock what are you doing?"

"Going to Scotland Yard, I need to speak to Lestrade," he said, heading for the door. John frowned and jumped in the way, crossing his arms over his chest and silently wishing he was at least a few inches taller to put him on more equal footing with his friend.

"No you're not," John told him, "You're still sick."

"Oh don't be ridiculous, I feel fine," Sherlock said, his words punctuated with another cough, this one shorter but still wet and choking.

John raised a brow, "Really? You don't sound any better, Sherlock,"

"John, the case –"

"Can wait. You are sick. Now go lie down, Sherlock. You need to rest,"

"I don't feel like resting. All this sitting around is going to drive me mad! My brain is rotting, John!"

John remained unmoved and Sherlock scowled at him, dull eyes flashing as he stared down at his friends. "You know, John, I may be sick but I believe I can still move you by force if I have to."

John narrowed his eyes and shifted his feet as Sherlock stepped closed to him until the toes of his shoes were resting right against John's bare toes. "Sherlock, please, as your doctor, will you listen to me? You need rest or it'll take even longer for you to get better,"

"John, honestly, I'm fine!" Sherlock insisted before swaying on his feet slightly, fighting back another coughing attack as a wave of nausea washed over him for a brief moment and his knees buckled, sending him falling into John.

The older man caught his friend, gripping him by the shoulders as Sherlock closed his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths as he forehead rested against John's. They both shifted their feet at the same moment, drawing them closer together and John blinked when Sherlock's eyes popped open again and he was staring right at him.

They were breathing heavily, Sherlock probably because he was ill. John wasn't sure why he was breathing so hard. He tilted his face up, expecting Sherlock to pull away. When he didn't, their lips brushed in a light, accidental kiss and Sherlock blinked, pulling his head back up. His eyes were still glassy as he stared down at John and for a moment neither of them moved at all.

Sherlock finally spoke, "Sorry, my knees got a bit weak for a moment, I –"

John wasn't really listening though. Not even surprised by the fact that Sherlock Holmes had actually apologized for something. He didn't know what came over him as he reached up and tangled his hands in Sherlock's hair, yanking his face back down to his level, pressing his lips to Sherlock's in a fierce, somewhat sloppy kiss. It lasted nearly fifteen seconds before he released him and gasped, shock on his face as he stared up at Sherlock.

The young consulting detective stood there, weak in the knees, heart racing and head pounding. Now he was only half certain the symptoms were from the sickness. After a moment he stepped away and straightened his slightly crumpled suit jacket. "Alright, John," his voice was still cracked, sore and burning a bit. "You win. I'll stay here and… let my brain rot."

John was still standing by the door, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging half open.

Sherlock sat down on the couch and leaned his head against the back of it, closing his eyes like he had the previous night. He let out a breath and opened his eyes, glancing over at his apparently paralyzed friend.

"I'm not a medical doctor, John, but I believe you're going to regret that kiss in a couple of day. I am still sick, you know,"

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**~./\.~**

* * *

Two days later Sherlock was as good as new; he'd been down to Scotland Yard to tell Lestrade exactly what he hadn't observed at the crime scene and solved the case. When he got to the flat he found John wrapped in a blanket, sitting in the armchair watching television. A bottle of cough medicine and a bowl of soup sat next to him.

When the doctor let out a hacking cough, Sherlock smirked, "I told you you'd regret that kiss, didn't I?"

"Shut up," John muttered, sniffling as he blew his nose into a tissue and hacked a few more times.

"It's not my fault," Sherlock informed him, "You attacked me, John."

John glared at him, "I didn't _attack_ you,"

Sherlock's smirk slipped into a small smile and he wandered over to the desk, flipping open his laptop and glancing over at John again. "Not that I'm complaining… exactly," he paused, "No one's ever kissed me before, not like that. Very unique experience, although it does draw question to your constant rebuttals of 'I'm not gay', doesn't it?"

John cut his glassy, puffy eyes at Sherlock, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulder as he glared.

"I hate you," he muttered.

Sherlock smirked that arrogant Sherlock Holmes smirk of his. "No you don't,"

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**-the end-**

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**A/N: **So nervous about this. I hope it was alright. Please, please let me know what you think. Comments and criticism are welcome!

Oddly enough this idea came to me watching an episode of "Two and a Half Men" where Charlie was sick and no one would take care of him.

Hope you enjoyed! Please review!


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